


In the Dead of Night

by fwooshy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (one brief & gory dream sequence involving heart-eating as part of a curse), (really vaguely hanahaki), ... but no one important dies!, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Gore, Dubious Consent, HP My Bloody Valentine 2021, Hanahaki Disease, Loving Cannibalism, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Manipulation, Vampire Draco Malfoy, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29538402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fwooshy/pseuds/fwooshy
Summary: I didn't mean to find him again, after Hogwarts. I'd hoped him another dead star in the void of my past. But I was an Auror, and he was he: Draco Malfoy, walking in the dead of night.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40
Collections: My Bloody Valentine 2021





	In the Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glittering_git](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittering_git/gifts).



> **Content Warnings (with spoilers)**  
>  Please read if any of the tags worry you. I'll try my best to explain!
> 
>   * Graphic Depictions of Violence - Physical violence in vampires sucking blood from victim. Aftermath of physical violence depicted (bloody bodies).
>   * Dubious Consent/Manipulation - The majority of this fic is dubious consent between Harry & Draco. Harry is never really sure between what he wants and what the Thrall wants him to want.
>   * Blood & Gore and Loving Cannibalism - One brief & gory dream sequencing involving Draco eating Harry's heart. Implied cannibalism related to Draco's curse. Some gore involved with Draco's curse, which is hanahaki-disease-inspired
>   * ... but no one (important) dies!
> 

> 
> **Happy Birthday[Sara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittering_git)!** You're one of the best people I've met in fandom. You always challenge me into trying new things—like reading/writing loving cannibalism. 🫀 Thank you for being a friend.
> 
> Thank you also very much to [The_Sinking_Ship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sinking_Ship/) for the beta (& always wonderful insight), to [ladyfloyd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfloyd) for physiology help, and to [writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writcraft) for hosting this fest!! 💛

I didn't mean to find him again, after Hogwarts. I'd hoped him another dead star in the void of my past. But I was an Auror, and he was he: Draco Malfoy, walking in the dead of night. I knew he was no good the second I spotted him rounding the corner down Knockturn Alley. Some people never failed to live up to their name.

Malfoy didn't detect me following him, disillusioned as I was, but the vampire did. She smiled at me from over his shoulder, painted lips curling menacingly under the moonlight before her incisors flashed and sank deep into his neck.

I yelled, but Malfoy made no notice of me. I ran up to them, my fists pounding on the invisible barrier between us. Then I caught sight of his face, gasping, with his eyes closed, and all thought passed through me, my mind calming to nothing as though I'd been Imperiused.

Later, I would learn that it was his Thrall that had stopped me dead in my tracks. With enough cause, all vampires could hold a mortal in Thrall, but most humans required some convincing, like an empty promise, or an unbreakable gaze—or something as simple as a gentle touch on the wrist. When it came to Draco Malfoy, all I needed was ten feet and a glimpse of his face half-shadowed behind a dirty brick wall.

I should've known, then. To run.

Instead, I tracked him down. I kept a few strands of his hair from when we'd fought after his trial, when he had punched me because I refused to vouch for his father. I punched him back because he deserved so much more pain than the three-months house arrest my testimony afforded him. Then the Aurors broke it up, and I saw that he was crying. He wasn't thinking about me at all.

I didn't press charges.

I was so tired back then, of the war, of fighting. I wanted to take a long nap and forget about it all. So I went home and did just that. I slept for maybe a week before Hermione came to find me. When I awoke, I found four strands of blond hair over my robes—Malfoy's hair.

I don't know why I kept them, but they proved convenient now—seven years later—when I wanted to find him. Finding someone always required something from that person. An old letter brought you to the general vicinity, a lipstick print to the city block. But something from their body—like a strand of hair, or a fingernail clipping—brought you past their Apparition wards to the foot of their bed.

You could go much further, with more. You could sign a person's forms with a pinky. You could control someone's mind if you had their heart. But of course, then they'd be dead.

He was sleeping when I found him. It was three in the afternoon, and his mouth was half-open and drooling like he'd been sleeping forever, though the dark rings under his eyes suggested otherwise. I didn't want to wake him, so I walked out of his bedroom to his kitchen, which was no bigger than a cupboard. He had a table in there the size of a student’s desk, so I sat at it, shivering and blinking until the sun went down. I don’t know how the time passed so fast. Time always moved quickly around him. Like I kept on running out of it, trying to figure him out.

I didn't notice him come into the kitchen until he was about a foot away from me. He must've not seen me either, because he stumbled back when I yelled at him, clutching at his chest like his heart was racing—though of course, it wasn't, because he was dead.

"For Salazar's sake," he cursed. He was halfway out the door and stumbling back into the bedroom, his pale fingers reaching for a wand that wasn't there. I knew it wasn't there because I confiscated it as soon as I came in.

"I just want to talk," I said. We used that line a lot on our rogue creature cases, but today, I meant it.

"How did you find—no, nevermind. I should've known you couldn't resist taking the Gryffindor heroics out for a stroll and leave well alone. Look, I  _ wanted _ to be bitten. So you can go on and get the fuck out of here."

He wore a silk shirt over slim trousers—all black, making him look nearly disembodied with how they blended into the darkness. He was thinner than I'd seen him at Hogwarts. Waifish, almost, like a breeze would blow him straight back if he didn't hold onto the doorframe. He didn't look well, even for being dead.

"Did you eat?" I asked, the words falling out of my mouth. It wasn't what I meant to ask.

"Are you offering?" he sneered.

It was clearly a rhetorical question, posed to get a rise out of me, and one that I fully intended to rebuke. But then, my face burned hot, and my mind fizzed down to a single want.

I wanted him to bite me, and I told him so.

"Potter," he said slowly, wavering.

His hesitation tasted sweet, like an opportunity. I stood up and advanced. He took a step back into the bedroom, his hands in front of him, as though to defend himself.

"I was joking," Draco said. "I don't—I don't want—whatever you're offering. Merlin, no. That's disgusting. I have potions in the cabinet to take care of it. If you'd step out of the way, then I could—"

The backs of his legs hit the bed. A step further and I'd be close enough to shove him down on the creaky old thing and then—

And then, what?

Shove my neck between his teeth and beg him to bite? Merlin, what was I  _ doing _ ?

"You did it again," I accused. My body moved on its own, pushing Malfoy onto the bed and straddling him. "Your—whatever this is. You're controlling me.  _ Stop it _ ."

"I'm not," he gasped. "I'm not doing anything. I  _ swear _ . Potter, please—"

I knew that look on his face. It was the one he made when he was scared, so scared that it turned him honest. I traced the crisp line of his cheek with a finger. He'd be flushed—if he wasn't dead.

I was doing it again.

I shoved myself off the bed and turned so that he faced my back. "Fucking stop it, Malfoy. I'm warning you—"

"I think it's…" he hesitated again. Always hesitating, always unsure. That part of him hadn't changed, at least. Finally, he said, "I think it's what they call the Thrall. But it's not supposed to work like that. I'm supposed to activate it, although I've never figured out how. You're not supposed to just—fall under it—"

"Don't lie to me," I snarled.

"Why would I be lying to you?" he yelled. "Why would I put you under Thrall and refuse to drink from you?"

"I don't know," I admitted. None of it made sense to me. Why did I react the way I did? Why had he been bitten? And why did he want it in the first place?

I felt him move behind me too late. I turned to shove him, but it was a trap—he went straight for my pockets where I'd slipped his wand.

He pointed his wand between my eyes.

"Malfoy," I said, hands up. "You don't want to do this."

"Shut your trap," he hissed. And then he swished his wand.

I landed on the steps outside his building without a single hair out of place. I tapped my wand against the door handle. No luck: his wards were re-keyed and fortified.

I was formulating a half-assed plan to force my way back in, when my watch dinged, reminding me that I had thirty minutes before I reported in for Night Patrol at ten.

I left to think about things. I tried to act less rashly these days.

"Something on your mind?" Ron asked later. We were in the locker rooms changing back into our civvies.

"You could say that," I sighed. I slammed my locker shut.

Ron followed me out the door. It was around four in the morning and I was starving for a good breakfast—two eggs, two slices of bacon; alright, some tomatoes too, for the nutrients.

"Breakfast?" Ron asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

We got breakfast at Brenda's most days. But if I went today, I knew I'd be forced to talk about how I saw Malfoy get Turned. That part was fine—our line of work was never for the weak of heart—but Ron would know that I wouldn't just watch Malfoy get Turned and leave it at that.

I'd have to recount how I'd done blood magic on hair that I'd kept around for seven years just to track Malfoy down to his dingy bedsit, and, well, the Thrall bit was embarrassing. Losing control like that, because of  _ Malfoy, _ of all people; not that any other person would have been better, just maybe less humiliating.

I hesitated, then shook my head. "Stomach's acting up," I lied. There was no way I could face Ron and confess how I'd practically begged Malfoy to bite me.

I went home, made myself a bowl of cereal, and tried not to think of Draco having breakfast in the tiny kitchen of his bedsit while I sat in the grand ancestral home of his Great-Aunt Walburga. I had the urge to find him right then and drag him over to live with me in Grimmauld, where he wasn't at risk of burning his own bed while cooking.

I'd put him in Regulus's old room. He'd have his own bath and a good view of the oak where I'd spotted a robin's nest last week. I was about to get up and start airing out the damn room when I remembered that Draco probably didn't eat anymore, let alone cook, because he was a vampire. 

Whatever this Thrall was, it wasn't a typical one, because most required physical contact and an immense amount of power from the vampire. And even then, it only affected humans with a matching blood type. I'd never heard of any case of Thrall where the victim had lasting effects hours after, although I would be the first to admit that I never paid much attention to the textbook side of Defense.

I walked to my bedroom and opened the box where I kept the three remaining strands of Malfoy's hair. I always learned better on the job, anyway.

Malfoy was awake this time, though he already wore his silk pyjamas.

"You again," he snarled. "How many fingernail clippings of mine have you kept, you fucking creep?"

"Four," I said. "Four strands of hair."

"That was a rhetorical question, you wanker." He took out his wand.

I flicked my wrist, and it flew to my hand. Malfoy should've expected that. Hell, even pickpocketers expected that from me these days. I wasn't stellar at wandless magic—just that one. 

"I'm just here to talk," I said.

"Like fuck you are," he spat. " _ Talk _ . Talk with your prick out, I'd imagine—"

"Malfoy. You used your Thrall on me. That's illegal, punishable by three months in Azkaban." 

"I did no bloody thing! You  _ know _ I didn't. All I want is for you to get the fuck  _ out _ , Potter—"

I carefully avoided his eyes. "I will if you tell me why."

"I don't  _ know _ , Potter. Go ask a fucking Mind Healer if you really need someone to tell you why you're popping boners—"

"I'm not popping—" I shouted, my chest heaving. I bit my lip to stop the torrent of words from coming out. "I meant about your bite," I said when my breath finally settled. "Why did you want it?"

He quieted. I wanted so badly to look at his face, to see what he was thinking, but I knew I couldn't. Finally, he said, "If I tell you, you'll leave?"

"I swear I'll leave," I said.

"I was dying," he said.

"So you asked a vampire to Turn you… to die on your own terms? And now you're dead?" I asked, confused.

"And now I'm dead," he agreed. And then as if on cue, he coughed. Except instead of the guttural retching of phlegm, or blood, it sounded more like gravel rolling down the hill. 

I looked up in horror. And then I had Malfoy wrapped in my arms, hand smoothing down his back as I watched him cough up ruby rings, diamond bracelets, pearl earrings the size of Galleons, polished emeralds flaked in gold. It was like someone had shoved a dragon's hoard down Malfoy's throat and he was coughing it up, one jagged brooch at a time.

He steadied himself against me as the final earring rolled off his tongue. And then he looked me straight in the eye like he was going to tell me to fuck off again, so I leaned down and kissed him.

His lips were cold, but not freezing. But more surprising was that he kissed me back, his hands reaching up to tangle in my hair.

He had no heartbeat. His skin was so pale, I thought I could see through to his bones. And he couldn't get hard—not since his body had stopped pumping blood—but I could tell he was aroused all the same in the way he quivered against me, his lips chasing mine. 

I wanted him to bite me. I felt the need already building, hot and familiar in the back of my throat. But even more than that, I wanted to fuck him.

"Potter," Malfoy moaned. He threw his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. 

I pushed him back onto the bed, shoving aside a long string of pearls as I pinned his hands over his head, licking his throat, mouthing over where I wanted him to bite me. He shuddered, his legs parting to loop his ankles behind my back. I slid a hand down the rear of his pants, gripping him close to me, pushing my hard cock between his legs, the friction against my jeans agonisingly good but not good enough.

"Come on," I said, nipping his ear, my skin burning against his. "Come on, bite me. Do it. Bite me. I want you to."

"I can't," he sobbed, and curled a cool hand around my cock, as though in apology.

His hand was so cold, I thought he set me on fire. I thrust into his fist, moaning, my heart going so fast that I was getting out of breath and dizzy from it, my vision narrowing and widening and narrowing again, like a kaleidoscope. My desire swallowed me whole; his hands, his skin, his mouth the only touch that soothed the blazing need crawling under my skin.

The bed rattled beneath us, its shaky metal frame quaking with every roll of our hips. Malfoy whimpered, clenching his teeth as he pressed our foreheads together. If only he would open his mouth and bite me, run his teeth along my throat, his mouth bruising as he went. If only he would bite me, Turn me, then I—then I—

"Malfoy," I heaved, pushing my throat against his mouth. "Malfoy, please." My hips thrust faster, desperate. I felt right on the edge of coming, my heels lifted, ready to fall, if only he'd  _ bite _ . If only—

Sharp teeth, iron-cold and cutting, grazed down my throat. I swallowed, my throat bobbing, and came in a blinding flash, my eyes squeezed shut to the sudden fog flooding my vision.

When I came to, Malfoy was still under me, lying still as a corpse. His breathing was steady—forcibly steady—and there was a panic in his eyes that I found far too recognisable for my liking.

Whatever that was—Malfoy's Thrall, or my own bad choices—it seemed to have passed. I shoved off him, rubbing at my neck, my vision still blurred but my mind sharper than it had ever been around him.

"I didn't bite," Malfoy insisted. "I know that would land me a decade in Azkaban. I didn't bite."

"Jesus, Malfoy. Calm down," I said. "You think I'm going to drag you off to Azkaban for Turning me when anyone can see clear as day that I'm still a bloody human?"

He dragged his legs into his chest and wrapped an arm around them, brooding. The sheets glittered darkly, needle-back earrings and wire-thin necklaces scattered sharp as rose thorns around him.

"You swore you'd leave," he said.

"In due time," I said. I crossed my arms. "Tell me what's wrong with you."

My trousers were cooling, damp and unpleasant, and I tried not to squirm. As much as I wanted to spell the mess away, any opening and Malfoy would escape again. And I only had two strands of hair left.

He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut briefly, as though trying to make up his mind. I knew I'd won when he looked back at me and confessed, "It's a curse."

"No, shit. Who cast it?"

"I don't know," he said, his mouth a thin line of lies.

I took it to mean someone he knew, and for some reason, wanted to protect. I was about to push him on it, when he said, "It's a curse that was meant to kill me."

"So you decided to beat it by Turning instead? Great thinking, Malfoy."

"Do you know what happens to wizards who die cursed, Potter?" he asked, his tone suddenly mocking—although, at himself or me, I didn't know.

He didn't wait for me to continue. Instead, he said, his voice pitched as though reciting from a textbook: " _ Aggrieved by the tortures of their mortal lives, a cursed soul refuses to pass through the veil until their torment is lifted _ ."

I thought I'd learned something about that in Auror Academy. "That's how you get cursed objects or ghosts," I said.

"Ghosts, if you're lucky," he drawled, then his voice deepened, "Dementors—if you're not. There are worse fates than dying, Potter. And I was barreling straight toward the worst of them all." And then he coughed again—a locket, this time, with jagged edges that scraped out part of his lung.

"You need to go to St. Mungo's," I said. "I'll Apparate you there, then—"

"That's impossible."

"They reclassified all Living Dead as Beings five years ago, I know because Hermione—"

"Anti-Terrorist Act, Clause 5:  _ All Beings bearing the Dark Mark will not be permitted to public services provided _ —"

"Then I'll get Hannah Abbott to come, she's a nurse—"

"Potter." He stepped toward me so swiftly, so silently that I didn't notice until he dropped a hand over my wrist. My whole arm flared up, burning through me like wildfire. I—

"Potter, I've tried. No healer can help me, let alone a  _ nurse _ ," Draco sneered. His words cut through the lust as though he'd inked them directly onto my eyes. "The curse is archaic. A family heirloom," his mouth twisted. "Only libraries and experimentation can help me now. And fortunately for me, I'm the perfect test subject—I can't die."

_ But you can feel pain,  _ I tried saying, but the words choked in my throat, as though I was the one gagging on those jewels.

I don't remember what happened next. Only that when I came to, I stood outside Malfoy's doorstep again and the sky was a beautiful, dazzling blue. I shielded my eyes against it and Apparated home.

I found Hermione at her desk during lunch, drinking soup out of a mug in one hand and flipping through pages with the other.

"Harry!" she exclaimed when she saw me. "What a surprise! I was just thinking about you. Fudge has an awful new bill infringing on Metamorphmagi rights, and I thought Teddy might want to testify against it."

"Teddy is seven, Hermione," I said gently.

"Oh! Right, no, you're absolutely right." She stared down at the tome on her desk, her mind racing. And then she abruptly closed it before looking back up at me.

"Did you want to discuss something, Harry?" she asked.

I hesitated, looking around her office. Most of Hermione's coworkers had gone out for lunch, but I could still hear a few quills scratching away. Hermione had her own cubicle, with Hermione-grade silencing charms, but people still had eyes. I didn't want our meeting to end up in the Prophet.

"Did you want to get lunch?" I asked.

Hermione looked down at her mug of soup. It was cold and half-congealed, despite how dutifully she'd been holding it up.

She wrinkled her nose before Vanishing it clean. "Alright, Harry. Let's go."

We Floo'd back to her and Ron's flat and I told her about Malfoy's curse, leaving out the part where I'd come in my jeans. 

She said, "That's awful. But that's also none of your business, Harry."

"How can you say that?"

She winced, looking down at the leftover casserole she'd reheated for our lunch. "I learned pretty quick on the job that I can't save everyone, Harry. There are always trade-offs. Besides, it sounds like he doesn't even want your help."

"Malfoy never knows what he wants," I spat. "If only I'd helped him with Dumbledore, in sixth-year—"

"Malfoy didn't want your help then either, Harry. That's not your fault."

"That's exactly my point!" I exploded. "Malfoy fucks it up for everyone else because he's too proud to ask for help!"

She cast a quick silencing charm, but it was too late. I could already hear Ron rousing upstairs.

Ron would be even less sympathetic to Malfoy's curse and we both knew it.

"I'll look into it," she promised, looking unhappy about it just as Ron descended the stairs.

"Over early?" Ron asked, smiling. "Dinner's not for a few hours."

"Sorry for waking you," I said. "Couldn't sleep."

"S'right," he said, yawning. He eyed our plates. "Saved some for me?"

"You can have the rest of mine," Hermione said. "I need to get back to the office. Harry, you're welcome to stay—"

I went home.

I kept fading out during my patrols, thinking I saw Malfoy when I hadn't. It got so bad that I clocked out a full hour late because I lost track of time.

Some nights, I paced outside Malfoy's building. He left his curtains closed tight, so tight that I'd have thought that he moved if he hadn't opened them the first night and looked down at me with those dead eyes, as though daring me to break in.

I didn't. But oh, how I wanted to. I could feel the Thrall's pull on me from the pavement outside. It was like he was sucking me in. But he never unlocked the door, never looked down again.

Hermione owled me to say that she hadn't found anything on Malfoy's curse. "I found a few reports from Japan, where the victim's lungs fill up with flower petals."

"That doesn't sound bad," I said into the fireplace later. "It sounds beautiful, even."

"It's not, at first. But the petals eventually suffocate the victims."

I winced. "Did the books say there was a cure?"

"Yeah," Hermione said. She hesitated, as though unsure whether or not she could trust me with the knowledge. And then she'd said, "If the victim's true love is reciprocated."

"How does that solve anything? Why would anyone want to use that curse?"

Hermione's voice had gone dry, as though she'd detached herself from the knowledge, to compartmentalize the pain. "In all cases, it was self-inflicted. But the victims… they always died."

That night, I dreamed of Malfoy. He knelt at the foot of my bed, all grey except for his eyes, which were red. In his hands was a bloody mass, dripping crimson over my comforter. When my eyes focused, I saw that it was a heart in his hand, still pumping within his grip, that was more claw than hand. He lifted the heart to his mouth and tore off a chunk with his teeth and I felt the pain in my own chest like it was my heart that he devoured, my blood that smeared his cheeks and nose as he chewed bite after bite, my veins dangling between his teeth with every swallow.

"Malfoy," I tried calling out, but I couldn't. My voice was gone. I lifted my hands to my chest, which was wet. I raised my hands and saw that they dripped with blood. Where my heart had been was now a gaping, empty hole.

I looked up in horror, my mouth opened in a silent scream. Draco licked his fingers. He grinned, his incisors flashing white, his lips stained red from blood. He asked, "You scared, Potter?"

I woke drenched in sweat, my heart pounding safely within my chest.

I owled Hermione before patrol the next day, asking if vampires could communicate in dreams.

Her owl found me as I was chasing down a bloke who transfigured the ice cream statue in front of Fortescue's into a dick.

"No… but Harry, you don't need to be a vampire to enter people's dreams. Don't you remember?" she'd written.

Some days, I wish I didn't. But Voldemort featured in my nightmares more often than not. The worst part was, in my dreams, he never did anything particularly malicious. He'd sit in front of the fire reading a book, Nagini asleep at his feet, and the chill that ran down my spine was almost enough for me to wet the bed.

I brought the dick-transfigurer into the station, Incarceroused. The receiving officer, Proudfoot, gave me an odd look.

"What?" I asked.

"Vandalism is a citation, not a trip to the station," Proudfoot said.

"Oh. Sorry, must've slipped my mind," I said. I'd been thinking about Hermione's owl, and it was like my body moved on its own.

Proudfoot's eyes softened. "That's going to be your third writeup this week, Harry. Anything going on at home?"

"No," I said roughly. "No, I'm fine. It won't happen again, sir. I promise."

I don't know if he or Hermione talked to Ron, but someone did, because Ron cornered me coming out of the locker rooms.

"Something is going on with you," Ron accused.

"Nothing's going on," I said.

"Hermione said you've got yourself waist-deep in Malfoy shit again."

"Fuck, she said she'd—"

"We'll talk about how you can't trust your best friend another time," Ron growled, "But you better tell me what's going on, Harry."

"Nothing is bloody going on, alright? He's got a curse he needs help getting rid of."

"And that's making you slip at work, go batshit distant with your friends? You know, we expected you at dinner yesterday."

"Shit," I said. "Fuck, I'm sorry, Ron. You know I wouldn't—"

"So tell me what's. Going. On."

" _ Nothing _ is going on. Look, if you're going to be that fucking nosy, you can follow me all the way to Grimmauld, fucking tuck me into bed if you want—"

"Harry, mate. You know what, I give up. Whatever. You two deserve each other."

I watched his back as he walked out. "You're the one who fucking cornered me!" I shouted, but it sounded pathetic, even to my own ears. He didn't so much as falter, let alone look back.

I Floo'd home in a rage. There was no questioning what I was going to do. I went straight to my bedside table and pulled out the third strand of hair. 

Malfoy was in the bath. I heaved him out of it, still dripping onto his bed. We were kissing even before the drying spell finished. His hair softened between my fingers, his skin slowly losing its slippery edge.

This time, I hadn't come to talk.

I fell back onto his sheets. He crawled up to me, his silvery hair kissing my face, his lips against mine. He rolled his hips slowly and I gasped, shivering. He was calming me down, I could feel it. My vision refocused, my shoulders melting into the sheets.

"I want to fuck you," I said.

He whimpered, rolling his hips again, his eyes on mine, dark under shadows. I reached a hand behind him and palmed the swell of his arse, grateful to have caught him in the bath. I never liked to bother with undressing.

I could feel his harsh breath against my ear. He smelled like soap, like lavender and Quidditch oil, though there wasn't a broom anywhere in the bedsit. I slid the edge of my hand against the cleft of his arse. He collapsed over my chest when my fingers brushed the tight ring of muscle, circling it.

"Can I? Can I fuck you," I asked over the roar of lust in my ears. The now-familiar mantra of  _ bite me, bite me _ pulsed like a heartbeat in the background of my sudden, urgent need to fuck Malfoy. My cock was hard and leaking. I pushed it between his bare thighs, rubbing up against his balls.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, okay." And then he bit his lip like he was shy.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's just." He squinted. He'd be blushing now if he still could. Then he said, "It's just—I've never done it that way before."

"Jesus, Malfoy," I groaned. He had no idea how much that turned me on. A sudden tenderness seized my heart. Looking back, I can't tell if Malfoy had been genuine about it or if he had played me. I don't know how fucking became making love, but at that moment, I fell for it—and I'd fall for it all over again.

The best way I can explain it, is that I'd never been able to stay rational around Malfoy.

I flipped us over so that he was on his back with his legs splayed wide. His eyes were half-lidded and he was panting, the tips of his incisors worrying his lip. Cold sweat gathered over his upper lip, but his hands were too busy balling up the sheets to wipe it off. I wanted to kiss him so badly. It couldn't just be his Thrall making my blood run hot.

"Stop staring. Do something," he demanded. "You're embarrassing me."

"I'm embarrassing you?" I chuckled, but I obliged, lifting his hips to my face. I spread his cheeks apart, and licked a stripe between them, before nudging my tongue in his hole, his thighs trembling as they clenched around my head.

"More," he insisted almost immediately. Pushy—I should have expected it. But I was feeling generous, so I slicked a finger and pushed it in, watching his hole quivering around it.

"You don't have to be so gentle," he gasped when I pushed in the second finger. "You can—Merlin, that feels good."

"Is it good, or is it too gentle?" I growled, keeping my fingers exactly where they were.

"It's—it's good—"

"Good, then trust me," I said. 

"It's good, but I need—"

"Shhh," I cooed, going no faster than before. "Shh, I know exactly what you need."

"Potter. Harry, Harry—" he pleaded, writhing beneath me, tears flooding to his eyes. His face was slick and wet, his lips twisted obscenely. I wanted to lick his face clean, tell him I'd take care of him.

No, that was the Thrall. 

Ah, fuck it. I didn't care anymore. 

My cock nudged at his entrance. I intended to be slow about it, but once the tip breached, I couldn't resist. It was like he sucked me in.

I bent over him. "Bite me," I whispered, pulling out halfway. "Bite me," I moaned, slamming my hips back in.

"Harry," he whimpered, his voice muffled under his wrist. His eyes teared up, like he was trying so hard not to bite me that it was killing him. He bit down on his hand instead, leaving deep grooves where blood should have spilt, if he were still alive.

I caught his wrist, pulling it above his head with one hand as I forced my fingers into his mouth with the other. His incisors nearly broke skin as he gagged around my fist, choking.

It was more than I could take.

"You really won't bite me?" I asked later, in bed, as though I'd been testing his restraint.

He slung an arm over my chest, his head in the crook of my neck. I wrapped my arm around his head, bringing him in closer to me. His heart didn't beat, but that was alright because mine beat loud enough for the two of us.

He laughed, more a breath than a chuckle.

"What?" I asked.

He sighed. Then he said, "You're terribly good."

"Thank you?" I tried not to smile. I didn't have much experience when it came to sex, but it was more than none.

"No, I mean." He tapped my chest over my heart. "In here. You're good in here."

I couldn't help but laugh. "And it took licking your arse for you to figure that out? Nevermind all the times in sixth-year when I tried to stop you from getting that Dark Mark. Nevermind when I testified for you and your mum—"

"I couldn't tell if you only wanted to feel good about yourself, or if you actually wanted to help. I never—I don't like being a charity case, Potter. I have—"

"Pride," I finished for him. I wanted to say more, say how it was never like that for me. Sure, I may have a Saviour complex, or however you wanted to brand it, but it was never for just anyone. I wasn't going to follow around any old Hufflepuff every night for months if I didn't feel strongly about them—whether it be good, or bad. But just as I had the words ready on my tongue, he kissed me again.

I rolled above him so that my shoulders covered his and crushed him down onto the mattress. "My bed at Grimmauld is really much better," I said.

"Maybe tomorrow," he said. He grazed his teeth against my nipple, and that pleasant feeling of delirium overwhelmed my senses again. The fog reminded me of the time I spent in Limbo, waiting at the station for my train. It was almost nice.

I slept better that night than I had for years. It must've been five or six in the morning when I finally awoke to the sound of him entering the flat again.

"You slept straight through your shift," he said.

"I know," I said, though I couldn't find it in me to care. My heart was lighter than it'd been in years. I loved watching Malfoy walk around the room in his black silk shirt and slim trousers. He walked like a lesser human would skate.

I motioned him over to give me a kiss and he obliged, falling into my lap to really sink into it. Then he told me to get out because he'd figured out the curse and needed time alone to test out a cure.

"Really? A cure?" I asked, breathless with hope. "You sure I can't help?"

He traced his fingers over my chest, right over my heart, like he'd done earlier, when he told me I was good. He said, "No, it's best if you don't."

It wasn't until I was almost home that my worries started crowding me again. And when they came back, it was like someone had sledgehammered them straight to my head.

That someone was Hermione, of course. She waited for me in my bedroom.

"They've put you on probation," Hermione said. "Ron wasn't supposed to tell me, but I figure you'd find out soon enough when you clock in."

"I suppose you think you're doing me a favour," I said, still struggling to find it in me to care. I never liked that job, anyway.

"That's what Ron was trying to warn you about," she continued, as though she hadn't heard me. "Before you flung it back in his face and chose a Death Eater over your own friends."

"Merlin, Hermione," I winced. It wasn't like her to be this cruel. Had I really messed up that badly?

"You stink of sex," she accused. "Of betrayal. Does Malfoy have you wrapped around his little dick? I've known you to do a lot of stupid things, Harry James Potter, but this one is the stupidest yet."

"It's not like that," I said. "He's—he's changed. I'm different around him.  _ Better _ ."

"Are you really? All I see is how you're not sleeping anymore, you're not seeing your friends, you're losing your job when you were on the cusp of a promotion—"

"Shut up," I growled. "Shut up, you don't get it. You don't get  _ us _ ."

"What is  _ us? _ " she asked shrilly. "You've fucked Malfoy, what—once?"

"Twice."

"Jesus, twice? Twice, and you think you're in love? What do you even  _ know _ about him?"

How his breaths quieted when he was about to come. His mouth, soft as the skin of a summer peach. The way he bit his lip when he wanted something from me but was too nervous to ask for it.

"Enough," I said, cagey.

"Do you know what he does when he's not with you? Do you know that his mum's  _ dead? _ They found her in the Manor three weeks back with half her heart torn out of her chest. The other half, gone."

"That's not what's important," I snarled. I hated everything about this relentless line of questioning. "Malfoy's been preoccupied with his bloody  _ curse _ . I thought you were my friend, Hermione. Shouldn't you be happy for me—"

She burst into tears, her antagonistic facade falling away to hideous hiccups, one after another, rolling on as though they'd never end.

When she finally caught her breath, her eyes went blank, as though she were Seeing the future. "I'm too late," she whispered, hollow.

"What?"

"Malfoy's Thrall. I figured it out." She sniffed, rubbing her eyes red.

"That's great," I said cautiously because her entire demeanour said it wasn't. "That's great because Malfoy says he's figured out a cure—" 

"I'm too late," she repeated. "I'm too late. You've fallen too deep already."

"Tell me," I said.

She looked up, wary, before she quoted, " _ Victims who have been marked by a vampire may experience Thrall even if they are halfway across the world _ ."

"Draco has never bitten me," I said, blushing a little recalling all the times I'd wished he  _ had _ .

"A vampire marks their victim by inking their name on that person, typically over their chest."

"I'm telling you, Hermione, he hasn't. I think I'd know if someone had tattooed their name over my chest—"

She ripped open my shirt with her wand. And then she gasped.

I looked down, even though I was  _ sure _ that Draco had never marked me, would never—and sure enough, there was no name there, only an ill-advised horoscope constellation tattoo I'd gotten once when drunk.

"When did you get that, Harry?" Hermione whispered, hushed.

"Years ago. Why? It's got nothing to do with Draco. It's just a bloody horoscope tattoo. I clearly wasn't in the right state of mind when I got it."

"It's not just any constellation, Harry. It's the constellation  _ Draco _ ."

"No," I growled.

"Harry," she said, tears welling to her eyes again. I was getting bloody sick of her tears, though that didn't stop her from saying, "Harry, don't you  _ see _ . You're not—you don't want him, it's the  _ Thrall _ . I don't know what the cure is for his curse, but I know you're going to hurt from it—I know—"

"I don't believe that," I said. "I don't believe you. Now get out, before I—"

"Harry. Harry, please.  _ Listen _ to me. I love you. Ron and I love you, please—don't—" 

I took out my wand, intent on stunning her, obliviating her—anything. Instead, I yelled at her to get the fuck out before I hexed her.

She all but scrambled to the Floo.

With her gone, my mind cleared. So maybe Malfoy had put me under his Thrall. It was what I'd suspected all along, anyway. But why would he, if he didn't want to bite me?

There was only one way to get the answers, and that was from Draco Malfoy's mouth. I went to my nightstand and took out the last strand of hair.

He was coughing up jewels again when I found him—big ones. Hairpins encrusted in diamonds, a watch so heavily studded with sapphires that it bruised his thigh when it landed on his lap. And then, finally, a silver ring with an emerald so enormous, his face reflected off of it.

He pulled the ring off his tongue and tilted it so that it glittered in the moonlight. "It'd be beautiful on you, with your eyes," he said.

If it were any other situation, I would have laughed. But today, I was only here for answers.

"Hermione says she figured out how you're controlling me," I said.

"That took her long enough," he said, nonchalant.

I shoved him up against a wall, my hand fisted at his collar. "You bastard," I growled. "What do you want from me?"

He blinked, lazy. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, it bloody is not," I said. But Malfoy still didn't explain any further, so I yelled, "Just bloody use your Thrall on me like you always do and  _ make _ me do it."

"I've never made you do anything you didn't want to do already," he said.

"I don't believe you."

"You're here, aren't you?"

I didn't know what to say to that.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice still infuriatingly calm. "I'll take my name off of you, if you want it gone so badly, and then I'll explain how you can help me lift the curse. And if you still want to do it, fabulous. And if not, you can go the same way you came. On your own accord."

"What's stopping me from leaving before I hear you out?" I protested.

"Because you're curious," Malfoy smirked, his eyes gleaming as though saying,  _ I know you, Harry Potter _ .

He did, better than most.

"Alright," I said, pulling off my shirt.

He brushed his hand over my chest, whispering a long verse in Latin. A burn spread down my chest, gone as quick as it came. Then only his fingers lingered, so cold, it felt like they were burning right through to my heart. I didn't have to look to know that the tattoo was gone because the dull drumline of  _ bite me, bite me, bite me _ finally quelled.

But my desire for him never ceased to swell.

I caught his wrist when he pulled away, drawing him close enough so I could kiss him. Kissing him was the same, even without the Thrall. My cock grew hard, twitching with the slightest brush of his fingers on my arm. I pressed him up against the wall, my thigh sliding between his—but then he pushed me away, panting.

"The curse," he said. "The curse, before—"

"One last time," I murmured in his ear, feeling him shiver against me. "One last time, Draco."

He swallowed, his head bobbing against my shoulder.

It was like the fog had cleared from the hills, but the grass was still green, underneath it all.

What he wanted from me, in truth, was horrifying. He said he needed to eat half my heart.

"It was supposed to be my father's heart. But he died in Azkaban before I could acquire it," he said, as though that explained everything.

"Will it kill me?" I asked, my heart racing as I recalled what Hermione had said about Narcissa. 

_ They found her in the Manor three weeks back with half her heart torn out of her chest. _

"It's an ancient blood curse, Harry," Malfoy smiled, almost kindly. "No Malfoy has ever lived to see their grandchildren. But I will do my best to ease your pain."

"And I can just leave? If I don't want to?" I didn't know why I was entertaining the idea, why I wasn't already at home, or dragging him off to Azkaban.

"You can leave," he said. "But I know you won't."

"Why me?" I asked, desperate.

"Because you're the only one who will," he said. And then he looked away, almost melancholy.

"Alright," I said abruptly.

His nose wrinkled, confused for the first time since I'd found him. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," I said. I didn't give a fuck about my life, anyway, with the endless Night Patrols, the fights with my friends. Limbo seemed nice. Quiet. Warm, even.

Of course, the papers would blame it on my Saviour complex.

He called my name. "Harry," he whispered again, and again, and again, my name fading like smoke rings in the haze.

I was at the train station, but I was the only one there. The train hadn't even pulled up yet; there was no tell-tale engine clanking from a distance, no gentle rumbling underfoot—only the blinding fog, pale as snow.

I thought I saw Malfoy's face at the end of the station, so I walked toward him, toeing the edge of the platform. It wasn't him, of course; it was never him.

I thought about what I'd do when the train pulled in. Whether I'd get on, or if I'd stay on the platform, waiting—waiting for the next one, for Malfoy to show up. For a moment, I thought about leaping in front of it. If I died then, in Limbo, would I be one of the Living Dead, like him? Would they let me go back to him?

It would be so much easier if he'd just bitten me. Then I wouldn't need a heart to live.

When I woke, it was as though from a dream. For a moment, I thought I was at home. But then my vision focused and I noticed the familiar panelling of a hospital ceiling.

Hermione dozed in the chair next to me, scrolls from an open case crinkling in her sleep-heavy hands. I moved to save them from her, but then she opened her eyes.

"You're awake," she said. "Oh, thank Merlin you're awake." She threw her arms around me.

"What happened?" I asked.

Her face was pale. "We don't have to talk about it now," she whispered.

"I'm alive," I said belatedly. I'd only just remembered that I was supposed to be dead. Had Malfoy bitten me? No, my heart still pounded in my chest, but it was harder to breathe—or maybe that was from the potions.

"Yes, you're alive," Hermione said, on the verge of tears again.

"Tell me," I said.

"Okay, Okay, fine," she sniffled. She cleared her throat, which was thick with phlegm. "I figured out Malfoy's curse, all of it. What Malfoy needed from you—I wanted to tell you, but you weren't—you weren't  _ listening _ . But as soon as you left, I called a medic team and an Auror team. We must've staked outside the building for hours, taking down one ward after another. But then they all fell at once. And when we got inside, he was gone, and you were on the floor. He'd bandaged you up, and left scrolls on how to—how to properly regrow your heart. That's never been accomplished before, did you know? It was brilliant research, but so dangerous, so  _ wrong _ . So—so awful, what he did to you. I'm so sorry Harry—"

"But I'm fine now?"

She looked up in surprise. "You aren't angry?"

"I asked him to do it," I said. I had expected to die.

It was the wrong thing to say because she only sobbed harder.

They let me go back to Grimmauld the next day. Hermione spent the whole afternoon making sure I was settled before I'd finally laughed at enough of Ron's jokes to convince her I was okay.

I wasn't, of course. Draco had taken half of my heart. 

I suppose I should've been thankful that he'd left me alive. But all I could think about was how he left me without saying goodbye.

I went back on Night Patrol. I made up for all the past mistakes enough to get promoted to Head Auror. I never missed breakfast with Ron, or dinner with them both. I cried when they named me Godfather to their daughter.

And every night, I looked in the mirror, tracing the scar Malfoy had sewn up: a constellation, in his name.

Sometimes I walked by his old building. Never intentionally, but it was next to an offy on the way to Luna's from mine. I would stand outside and look up at his window. Two years and still, the curtains never moved. Two years and the flat stayed warded tighter than Azkaban.

Until one day, it let me in.

All the furniture was gone, though the anti-dust charms kept the floorboards clean. I walked to that tiny kitchen, the one where I'd sat that first night waiting for him to rouse. I ran my hand along the wall where I'd fucked him last.

And then I saw it. The emerald ring Malfoy had coughed up, glimmering darkly in the kitchen sink. There was no note. It didn't need one, because he'd woven a lock of hair into the band—his hair.

I carried two bottles of wine still in my arms. My friends were expecting me; Luna was getting married. I pictured myself there, in Luna's kitchen talking Quidditch with Cho, while Ron laughed at something Neville said in the other room. I imagined the warmth of it, the soft comfort of my friends, surrounding me. 

And then I picked up the ring, watching my reflection flicker across it.

The wards might have dropped because Malfoy was dead: genuinely dead, ground to dust. And even if he wasn't, even if I did the crazy thing and tracked him down again, I had no idea if he would kill me, or kiss me.

All I knew was, I had to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 💛 You can find me on [dw](https://fwooshy.dreamwidth.org/) and [tumblr](https://fw00shy.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I listened to Blackbird by The Beatles a lot while writing this. When I was thinking about heart-eating, I had (gore warning) Goya's [Saturn Devouring His Son](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_Devouring_His_Son) in mind.
> 
> This is my first attempt at vampire fic, and I had a lot of fun talking to [ladyfloyd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfloyd) about what happens to bodies after their blood stops pumping... limp dicks my friends.
> 
> For more loving cannibalism, I recommend reading [glittering_git's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittering_git) [loving cannibalism series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159184). Hope you had a wonderful birthday, Sara!


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